


This, Tonight

by Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)



Category: Ugly Betty
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-16
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/341158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/pseuds/Sandrine%20Shaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fallout of 'Derailed'. Daniel gets drunk, Alexis gets lonely, and things get out of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This, Tonight

Maybe you're a little drunk, but you know you're not nearly drunk enough because you can still remember everything that's been going wrong in your life ever since… well, ever since your brother died and came back from the not-so-dead sporting tits and other girl parts and more of an attitude than ever. As much as you'd like to blame him, though, you're sadly not smashed enough to do that. Because it was your dad's selfishness and his bigotry and his ignorance that started it all, and now he's behind bars and your mum is a murderer and your brother is a girl, and you think you're going to be sick—

You puke into the snow right outside your apartment building, and then you take another swing from the bottle that you took home with from the bar you spent the last four hours at. The burn of the alcohol makes the taste of bile vanish, but you don't feel any better.

If Betty wasn't at the Stella McCarthy show, you would have called her. You probably should have; you really don't want to be alone right now. But Betty deserves her night out more than anyone, and you don't want to ruin this for her. That leaves you here, alone on the way back to your empty apartment, and you almost fondly remember the time you spent in hiding there, after Sofia publicly dumped you. To think that you thought you had _problems_ then! Right now, in hindsight, the whole matter seems very much inconsequential.

When you arrive at your apartment, the sight that greets you makes you pause: sitting at you doorstep, there's Alex. Alexis. Whatever. Your mind flashes back to the big entrance she made at Fashion Week, standing tall and confident and triumphant. Looking at her now, there's nothing left of that person, just a crumbled heap on the dirty floor, long legs drawn protectively against her chest and arms curved around them. 

She looks up to you as you approach, and there's a vulnerability in that gaze that you've never seen before, not even that day out on Coney Island when she told mum and you why she did what she did. Her eyes are bright and clear, but the mascara streaks down her cheeks are telltale signs that she's been crying.

"Hey," you say, uncertainly. "You okay?"

It's a stupid question. She's been waiting outside your apartment, all dressed up to the nines and crying her eyes out; people don't do that if they're okay. 

"People suck," she tells you in lieu of an answer. It's probably not an all that profound realization, but right now, you think it's the most sensible, insightful thing you've heard anyone say in a long time, and it explains a lot, like why your life has been spiralling out of its axis lately and why it keeps getting worse instead of better. People suck. Betty would disagree; she'd tell you that most people are good and kind and don't want to hurt others and that the rest is just misunderstood and lonely. But Betty's not here right now, and it's surprisingly easy to switch off the little voice in the back of your head that sounds a lot like her.

"I drink to that!" You fish out the bottle from inside your coat and drown the last of it before you fumble with the lock on your door and stumble inside.

Alexis follows you in, looking miserable and out of place. 

"I thought if I had this, if I could finally be who I always wanted to be, life would be good," she says. Her voice sounds choked when she adds, "But it isn't." There's so much sadness in her eyes that you'd do about anything to make it go away. And that's when it gets a little weird, because your instincts tell you to take her in your arms and kiss her. It's the only way you know how to comfort a beautiful woman: they cry, you touch them, they get distracted – it's a foolproof strategy. You know you can't do that, though – not this time, because it's Alexis, your brother. Sister. Whatever. It would be wrong because she's family.

And that thought suddenly makes you laugh because family doesn't really mean much right now. Or anything at all. Your father's in prison, your mother killed your father's ex-lover, and your brother came back from the dead as a beautiful woman whom you have no idea how to act around. 

"You think that's funny." She sounds accusing and angry and upset, as if you're making fun of her and her misery, but you're not. You just don't have a clue how to explain that to her.

You shake your head and firmly tell her, "No." And then, because you don't now what else to say, you kiss her.

She tastes cool and faintly like Kentucky Bourbon (although that's probably not her but the remnants of the Jim Beam in your mouth), and not at all different from every other girl you ever kissed. In your semi-drunken mindset, you find that odd, because she's your brother and she used to be a guy. But then, you never kissed a guy before. Maybe guys taste just the same.

It's clumsy and too wet, and you wait for her to come to her senses and shove you away and tell you she hates you. You kind of rely on that, because you know this must not happen and you're not strong enough to put a stop to it yourself. 

You never anticipated that she might not be strong enough either.

So she doesn't stop you and you can't stop yourself, and the kiss goes on. You reach around her and fumble with the fastenings of her dress. She doesn't help you, but she doesn't exactly protest either. 

It takes you longer than it usually takes to undress a woman because your hands are shaking so badly, and the mixture of alcohol and oxygen-deprivation from the kissing is making you feel light-headed and uncoordinated. But finally, you win the fight against the dress, and it falls down to the floor and crumbles around her feet, like the foam Aphrodite stepped out of. 

And there she is, naked in front of you, every inch a _woman_ , satin-soft skin and luscious curves. You take a moment to appreciate the sight. You might be muttering a string of clichéd, lame compliments that shouldn't mean anything to her, except they apparently do because there's a faint blush on her cheeks and her lips twitch with the barest hint of a smile.

You kiss her again, and when her legs come up and wrap around your waist and her hands start to tear at your clothes, you know with certainty that this is going to happen. If there's ever been a way out, you've rushed past that exit with 180mph.

The last time you actually think about what you're doing is when your mouth trails down her neck, over the spot where her Adam's apple should be. You freeze for a moment, but then her body arches up into the kiss and her fingernails scratch over your back, and you get distracted. And then you slide inside her, and she's tight and wet and hot, and she gnaws at her lip and makes those delicious little noises when you touch her, and the memories of Alex fade into nothing.

You pass out, later, sated and still not really sober and too tired to think. Alexis' arm is stretched across your chest and her face is buried in your shoulder. 

The alarm clock at the nightstand tells you it's half past eight when you wake up. Your bedroom faces east and the blinds aren't drawn, allowing the morning sunlight to fall through your window and right on your face. It's too bright and it hurts your eyes. Your head is throbbing. Alexis sits on the edge of the bed with her back turned to you. She has a sheet wrapped tightly around her body, and her whole body is rigid in a way that seems almost painful; she sits so straight that it looks as if her back's gonna snap any moment now.

Tentatively, carefully, you reach out, but stop before your hand touches her skin.

She must have sensed the motion anyway, because she half-turns her head to you. 

"They're right. I am a freak," she says matter-of-factly in a dead, toneless voice. You have no idea who 'they' are but right in this moment, you want to hurt them really badly. As soon as your head stops trying to explode, anyway.

"If you're a freak, then what does that make me?" You mean it as a joke, but as soon as the words are out, you realize that it's true. You slept with your sister, for God's sake. How much sicker does it get! The guilt you feel is superficial and abstract, though, because even though you technically know what you did was deeply wrong, you cannot really think of Alexis as your sister, no matter how hard you try. Except, you know that you're not really trying very hard right now.

She wipes at her eyes and laughs – and even if it's a little shaky, it's laughter. It's a start. 

"Everyone knows that you're a freak, Danny. That's hardly news!" There's no bitterness in it, just friendly (you refuse to call it brotherly, not now) familiar banter.

You smile, and when you embrace her she lets her head rest on your chest and your arms circle her without flinching away. You feel more out of your depth than you ever did before, but somehow, you don't really mind. "It'll be okay. We'll figure it out," you mutter into the soft blonde curls of her hair before placing a kiss there, and it might be the most honest thing you've ever said on a morning after.


End file.
